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I'll Never Forget My Friend

By Pamela Peterson

Did you ever have a person in your unit who at first was just another person in your section, until circumstances changed everything and you became good friends? Well, thanks to the military action in the Middle East in '90-'91, I found and lost not just a fellow soldier, but a good friend and brother. If you don't mind, I would like to share my memories of him with you and maybe you will do the same for me sometime.

Everyone, including myself, called him "Brown." He was short and skinny, but he was by no means a weakling! I will never forget his "turtle shell" shaped nose. He used to tape the bottoms of his BDU's to keep them in his boots - you know, two sides pulled back tightly, not "bloused" as the platoon sergeant wanted them. He was a little argumentative sometimes, but one of the most hardworking people I've ever seen in my life.

Before we were deployed in the desert, somewhere in Saudi, I knew very little about him. This was mostly because I was new to the unit. I knew he was a "short-timer" who had put in his time and was very much looking forward to getting out. He was one of the motor pool's mechanics (I was the motor pool's PLL/TAMS clerk for our Halk Missile unit). I also knew he was married, only because I overheard him talking about her one day. But once we were deployed to Saudi and the fear, unknowing, depression, lack of sleep, and the rest of the miseries of combat situations arose, I found a friend.

I suppose any type of military action where you don't know if you are going to die in the next few minutes or ever get to see your family again causes people to develop a strong common bond with others who are there experiencing the depression and anxiety along with you. Brown and I developed our friendship mostly because we were both motor pool and we were almost always "bunker partners" when it came to guard duty. We had to pull anywhere from two to six hours on-off day and night shifts. We also performed the basic courtesy of protecting one another's back when it became necessary to relieve oneself. We even nudged one another when the other one dozed off. Outside of guard duty, it seemed as though I always had to place an order and get supplies. The motor pool was always in need of fuel. This, of course, made it convenient to send me as the shotgun for Brown while making mo-gas runs and picking up supplies. Of course, that meant we spent a considerable amount of time together.

Like other soldiers, we talked and became good friends. Our conversations helped to relieve much of the stress and misery of a soldier's life in an isolated desert compound. We talked about missing our families, where we were from, past remembrances, and what we had planned when we got out of the army. We never really talked about dying. Not even after or while we were crunched up in our scud bunkers wondering whether we were about to die. I suppose everyone thinks about death constantly and wants to try to forget it. That was especially true during the hardest time, the holidays.

I believe it was Thanksgiving when the mess tent actually served "real" food. As if the holiday depression wasn't enough to deal with, Brown and I also had guard duty during the time the food was being served. Luckily we didn't have to wait until after our shift to eat because a private brought us our holiday dinner. Trying to make the best of things, we turned a milk crate upside down to make a table in the bunker. We acted like we were on a picnic, enjoying a delightful meal while watching the countryside. Our mission at the time was just making it through that day without thinking about home and our loved ones whom we might never see again.

As if life wasn't bad enough, on January 5th, 1990, a terrible thing happened. Brown and a sergeant went on a diesel fuel run. After they got fuel, they went to the phones and called home. It was late at night when they started back to our battery's site. It was also raining, and the desert road and sands didn't react well to the rain. No one knows exactly what happened for sure, but Brown somehow lost control of the diesel truck. It hit the sand and rolled three times. Brown and the sergeant were taken to the closest medical unit. Brown had broken his neck and was quickly medivac'd to Germany.

Later that night -- I think it was about 2300 hours -- my motor pool sergeant came to my tent and told me what had happened. He also said that the rest of the motor pool and some "hawkers" were going to clean up the accident area. I was gathering my M-16, kevilar, flak jacket, etc., when he said that I wasn't going. I didn't understand why I was not allowed to go. Most importantly, he didn't understand that I had to go! Brown was my friend! I had to help him in any way possible, even if that only meant cleaning up the truck that had almost killed him. I begged and pleaded until he gave in and let me go.

We arrived at the accident site at around 2330 hours. It was dark and wet. The diesel truck was completely totaled. The dented driver's side of the truck rested on top of the sand. The cab's canvas top was ripped completely off and the steering wheel was bent. The pods of diesel fuel were almost thrown off the back of the truck and were leaking. We all worked into the early morning hours in the rain just to get the truck upright and the pods back into their places. I felt like I had to push myself until I couldn't anymore. I had to try and save something. I wanted to save my friend!

The next morning, formation was called a little earlier than usual. Our captain told the platoon what had happened to Brown and the sergeant. Every word the captain spoke brought tears quietly streaming down my cheeks. My tears continued flowing while he tried to give us all hope that Brown would make it.

A few weeks passed. Every once in a while we were told that Brown was doing well, but he was paralyzed from the neck down. One day we were told that Brown could move his fingers. Eventually I felt relieved that he would live.

Tuesday, January 22nd. My depressing world grew worse. I was swinging a pickaxe to make foxholes in the hard desert terrain when my motor pool sergeant slowly approached me. He told me that he needed to talk to me and took me into the males' tent. He proceeded to tell me that Brown had died on January 21st. I asked for details as my eyes swelled and the tears flowed down my face. Either he didn't know any details regarding Brown's death or he wouldn't tell me. I was so angry! How could he die when they told me he was getting better?! What about his plans for the future? He was to E.T.S as soon as we got back. He was supposed to go back to Indiana with his wife and start a family! What happened? Why did he die? Why the hell weren't we told the truth if he was so bad that he was dying and wasn't actually getting better? Why did I lose my friend? Was I going to have to die alone? Why couldn't I have saved him somehow? I cried and cried for the rest of the day.

The next day, our battery held a memorial service for Brown. The chaplain arrived with our sergeant major and lieutenant colonel. About 100 yards from site, there was a camouflaged area. Under the camouflage there was a typical soldier's memorial: one M-16 A-1 with the bayonet attached stuck in the ground, a pair of shined combat boots, a kevilar, and an American flag. Everyone in motor pool and our captain wore part of a black leather bootlace tied around our left arms to signify we were in mourning. My tears flowed like a river and so did everyone else's.

Now that I am out of the army, I try very hard not to remember what I experienced over there. But to this day, there isn't a day that goes by when I don't think about my friend who didn't get to come home alive. I am so sorry that he had to die and never got to have his dreams come true. Brown made the holidays a little easier to deal with for me, and hopefully I did the same for him. I was and am still very thankful that Brown helped me during a very emotionally trying time in my life. I will always remember him.